


The Lake

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward First Meeting to Say The Least, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Police Officer Dean, Samulet, Skinny Dipping, Tattooed Castiel, Teacher Castiel, lake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10128593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Wait,” the man says, tilting his head to the side, “what’re you doing here then, Officer?”Dean licks his lips. He hasn’t thought this far ahead. “I—that’s confidential.”“Confiden—are you even wearing pants?!”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reflection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10060199) by [TheAuthorGod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorGod/pseuds/TheAuthorGod). 



 

It's his special place.

It's the one place that washes the colors of the week away like a wet sponge, soaking up all his orange inhibitions and red frustrations and wringing out yellow drops of sunlight that envelope his naked body. It's the one place that, despite its intake of blues and greens from the earth that spins a little too fast for his liking, is devoid of color itself—where everything is black and white. Simple. Serene. Quiet, save for the birds that keep a watchful eye on the surrounding land and his own hand, softly drumming on the water.

He scoops up handfuls of it—of course, most of it slips through his fingers anyway, which are rough despite the spread out and star-like freckles gracing them—and combs through his short, milk chocolate hair. The frigidness between the air and the water combined with the dewy mud between his toes is the best kind of thing to wake up to. At least, Dean prefers it over the noisy stall of a weather-beaten Cherokee, the occasional but not uncommon siren that follows, and his black sneakers hitting the pavement shortly thereafter.

The freshwater’s also nice on his wounds. The farther out into the water he goes, the less visible they become. It’s a luxury not even his uniform—black, like the night he got his rude welcoming into the force with a .55 Caliber Pistol lodged into his leg—can afford.

Then again, not _every_ scar is from the force.

Dean’s father, also a cop, and a reputable one at that, was an alcoholic. Dean started to fall down the same destructive path after he died that led to the reoccurring fist fights with his little brother.  

Luckily, he has the _best_ little brother, because Sam would never fight back. The scars on his shoulder blade and back validate that claim, from Sam’s long, slender fingers that always held Dean in a tight enough hold so he couldn’t swing.

He reaches behind him and traces one of the many lines with his left hand. It feels like a steep hill, similar to the one he had to climb to get himself back on track.

He pulls back ever so slightly to grasp the leather cord around his neck with the imitation gold Pagan charm—a gift from Sam when they were little. It’s warm, which could just be from his body temperature, but Dean likes to think it’s a newfound appreciation for a higher power that’s keeping tabs on him to save Sam a life with a well-paying job, a wife, and 2.5 kids.

A chill passes through him, and that’s when Dean looks at his fingers and notices the small prunes on them. He’s close enough to the pier he can just walk the rest of the way, but there’s no fun in that.

Dean turns around, and it’s as he’s sucking in a breath that he sees it. No, not it, a _he._ A man, _another_ man—another very naked man—entering the lake. He’s lean and tan in all the right places. Seriously, _all_ of them. His legs are perfectly curved and blend into strong, hexagonal hips, a flat stomach, and arms that pack in more weight than Dean can store in his gut during Thanksgiving weekend—

No, no, _no!_ This man is trespassing on Dean’s haven. No one _ever_ trespasses here. He is _not_ attracted to him.

Dean gulps, suddenly feeling _very_ self-conscious, so he takes the liberty of swimming towards the pier. Once he’s close enough, he swipes his black undershirt and pulls it over his head, despite the cloth sticking to him from the wetness, and starts heading towards the man.

And just great, the attractive _and_ intruding guy, thank you very much, has a nice face, too. It’s a little squarer than his own, and decorated in dark stubble the way a Christmas tree’s decorated with little LED lights—that being said, there’s a stark contrast, with his hair being better compared to a heap of leftover garland—even though the true shine rests within his sapphire eyes.

The man’s unshaven neck for days bobs his Adam’s apple as he laughs something deeper than the murky water below his abdomen. He must feel Dean’s bright red tension dripping off and floating around him, because he says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean presses, “you do know this is private property, right?”

The man’s brows furrow. “Excuse me?”

Dean draws his badge from his shirt pocket. “Officer Dean Winchester, pleasure to meet you.”

The smile on the man’s face springs a major leak and causes a dam of uncoordinated words to come spilling out, “Oh—oh no, I… I’m new to town, I didn’t know—”

“Yeah, you didn’t.”

“Wait,” the man says, tilting his head to the side, “what’re you doing here then, Officer?”

Dean licks his lips. He hasn’t thought this far ahead. “I—that’s confidential.”

“Confiden— _are you even wearing pants?!”_

Dean crosses his arms mock-heatedly. “Of course I’m wearing—!” He stops when he sees the man’s eyes fixed on the water and wide in shock. Dean’s own slowly inch towards where his shirt had ridden up from the simple action, exposing him halfway.

Needless to say, his cover is blown.

“I… um… this isn’t… private property,” Dean says messily. The man is still staring, so he yanks his shirt down in a futile attempt. Dean can add _pink_ to the list of colors he feels. “I’m sorry; I’m just being a douchebag. I mean, technically, I could still arrest you for public indecency, but seeing as I… we’re both…”

The man’s laugh makes a brief appearance again as he lends out his hand, “Cas.”

Dean accepts the hand. That’s when he notices the tattoo running along the inside of Cas’s forearm. It’s a rune that’s a black, upside-down triangle with a horizontal line running through it. Surrounding it is a bouquet of blooming flowers, pinks, blues, yellows—you name it. Dean’s not much of a tattoo person, but it’s a breathtaking piece.

Dean laughs under his breath too, despite himself. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Dean tapers off to gesture between their unclothed bodies.

Cas ducks his head and starts to turn pinkish to compensate for the blanch features Dean helped bestow on him seconds ago, “Right. This is kind of an awkward first meeting.” He pauses to look beyond the two of them for a moment to the surrounding forestry. “Wait, this _isn’t_ private property, is it?”

“Fuck, I hope not,” Dean swears, shrugging, “I honestly didn’t even think about it until now.”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“Five years, give or take.”

“Five ye—” Cas breaks off to scoff, “You’re an officer of the law and you’ve been breaking it for _five years?”_

Dean cringes a little. “Oo. Yeah, that sounds kind of bad, huh?”

Cas shakes his head. “You are one weird guy, Dean.”

“ _Officer_ Dean.”

“Sorry, _Officer_ Douchebag.”

Dean waves his hand, “Alright, alright, let’s get out of here before we both get caught.”

“You suit yourself, I just got in,” Cas remarks, sidestepping him to venture further out in the blue. Halfway, when the water’s just barely licking his forearms, he turns around and adds in a teasing tone, “Or _un-_ suit. Since you’re clearly sporting your birthday suit.”

*

“So why this spot?”

Dean pauses drying his hair to momentarily side-eye Cas, who’s paddling his arms like the fan motor on the back of a boat to quite literally keep his head above water. “You’re gonna prune, you know.”

Cas clicks his cheek with his tongue. “Classic equivocation.”

“You sure _you’re_ not the cop?” scoffs Dean, setting the damp towel between his crossed legs.

“I’m a high school teacher,” says Cas, “the most busting I’ve done is in the school hallway.”

“What do you teach?”

“Anthropology.”

Dean hums in appreciation, “My little brother wanted to be a teacher. Linguistic, at a college level.”

“What happened?”

“He learned he was better at using his words for persuasion rather than pragmatics.”

“So, he- _ah,_ he became a lawyer,” Cas says in-between a grunt as he heaves his arms onto the edge of the pier.

Dean bites his lip. Cas looks sort of amazing like this. All his weight rests on his upper biceps, making him look even more toned than he already is. His hair holds a little more weight too, only because of the water that’s plastering it to his forehead and around his ears. And to top it all off, he’s grinning with all his teeth.

“Y-yeah, um…” Dean looks to the floorboard for inspiration, “he’s in Palo Alto with his fiancée, Jess.”

“And yourself?” Cas asks, then, with a laugh: “Aside from being a douchebag cop, that is.”

Dean forces a small laugh and twists the Pagan head between his fingers. He watches as it bounces lightly off his chest before he says, “It’s been five years I’ve been sober. Alcohol. The last time I felt even the slightest itch, I came down here and just… let go. Five years ago, I could’ve dropped out of police academy, but this place… I don’t know, I just feel at peace.”

It’s a moment before anyone speaks, except the low whistle of the wind behind them tickling the trees, and the water beneath his feet quietly hitting the wooden posts of the pier. Then, without warning, Cas starts to pull himself forward, causing Dean to turn away with a laugh, but not before handing him his towel.

Another beat passes. Then Cas, who’s now sitting next to him with his towel pooling around his thighs, speaks, with right arm extended, “This wasn’t always a tattoo. If you strip away the colors and the stenciling, you’d see more than a few marks on my arm. I had this plan. Once I’d learned how to better love and accept myself, I would get a tattoo—turn my suffering into something beautiful.” Cas pauses to face Dean with a small smile. “Some days are harder than others, but I’m working on it.”

“What does the rune mean?” Dean asks as he gestures nearer to his wrist. Even though he’s fully clothed now, he feels more exposed than ever. But not necessarily in a bad way.

“It’s the Enochian symbol for Earth.” At that, Cas’s smile sows its own seeds and grows as he lightly runs his thumb over it. “I guess you could say it’s a reminder that I’m keeping myself _grounded._ Depending on your level of cheesiness, that is.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s cheesy at all.”

Cas’s smile thins out, but his blue eyes still shine as he states, “We all have a story, Dean. There’s no need to be ashamed of yours.”

Dean nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, a smile spreading through his own features as well. “Alright. I’d like to tell you more of it. Are you free next weekend?”


End file.
